


Suspension

by SharpestRose



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-29
Updated: 2011-06-29
Packaged: 2017-10-20 20:20:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/216739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestRose/pseuds/SharpestRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Safety is a relative concept.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Suspension

They have another not-shouting match when they get back to the cave.

"It was reckless."

"You're nuts. It was nothing."

"You were foolhardy, and I expect better of you."

"Yeah, well, I guess that makes you the sucker, then," Jason snipes. He's getting better at this kind of argument. When he was a kid, his parents would scream and swear and slam doors at each other and then be fine within the half-hour. With Bruce, it's a simmer. A big pot full of all kinds of crap and the heat's always, always on.

It isn't like he's murdered a bus full of nuns and orphans, either. Just waited a fraction of a second (or maybe, yeah, a half-dozen fractions of a second) longer than he really needed to before clasping the cord properly in a swing. Who wouldn't do that?

"I only expect what I know you to be capable of." Bruce is back in civilian clothes now, looking like there's nothing out of the ordinary about him even in the middle of the cave. It's like he gives off an aura of utter normalcy, cancelling out anything odd in the situation around him. Jason wonders briefly how a guy ends up learning how to do that.

"And what's _that_ supposed to mean, exactly?" Jason, however, is still in full uniform. He always takes as long as he can before changing, especially on Saturday nights. It's the worst and best time of the week: best, because he is Robin for the second night running, his peak of adrenaline and fierce contentment. Worst because it'll be a whole week's worth of boring, blank nights before he'll be back out and playing again.

Bruce sighs and scrubs at his face with his palms. Jason's gonna have to remember to actually call the number he keeps tucked in his wallet and ask Dick if Bruce always did that face-scrubbing motion or if it's one of those new things, like double-checking first aid kits and the 'no rock music after six pm' rule. "Nothing, Jason. Get some sleep."

It's better when Bruce looks like he wants to slap him or shake him or something. When all the fight goes out of him, Jason's got no choice but to walk off and get changed into something that isn't the Robin suit and lie on his bed and pretend to sleep for a while. It's frustrating and makes Jason feel almost queasy, a roiling in his gut that makes him want to punch something or drive fast along a long, empty road.

After enough time's passed, he goes to the kitchen and makes himself a couple of salami sandwiches. Jason really likes the sort that they get, it's kinda spicy, and he's glad that Bruce or Alfred or whoever obviously likes it too. There's always tons in the fridge when he sneaks down to swipe snacks.

When he's eaten, Jason borrows the motorcycle and heads back into the city centre. He realises five minutes after he's left the manor grounds that he's also left his helmet, but the wind feels almost as good as it did up in the air before he grabbed onto the cord and so he doesn't mind so much.

There's always a bunch of kids hanging out on the stairs near City Hall, chatting and smoking and watching the crowds along the sidewalks. Jason bums a smoke off one and a light off another, his clothes dusty enough from travel to look like they're not ridiculously expensive.

Some guy from a shelter comes by and offers everybody coffee and soup, but Jason's not really hungry and he's already feeling kinda strung out and jittery even without caffeine. It's been a while since he slept.

One of the kids, a boy about Jason's own age, has a beat-up guitar and a grotty old hat for people to throw coins in. Jason makes some lame joke and the boy grins. Jason gives him the remaining third of the cigarette and some spare change and then, with a wide yawn, Jason heads for home.

\--

It's kinda tacky. Even hookers most likely have more subtle opening lines.

"Watch where you're walking, dipshit," Blake Stevenson says, his elbow connecting hard with Jason's rib as they pass each other in the corridor, and that's that. Six minutes later they're the centre of a ring of guys from their class, out behind the trees past the home ec block. The school's got all kinds of rules about what the students aren't allowed to do in uniform, and fistfights fall somewhere between smoking and playing arcade games, so there's somebody standing guard in case a teacher comes by.

Blake's knuckle makes contact with Jason's lower lip, making the skin split and making Jason's laugh sound harsh and raw. Blake's left ear is already looking all puffy and red-purple and they've both lost a couple of buttons.

"Dipshit," Blake says again, and Jason thinks for the first time about what that word might actually mean. He laughs and punches Blake in the stomach, hard.

After a while Blake starts to get sloppy and Jason knocks him down pretty quickly. There's no fun in fighting someone who's not really up to it. One of Blake's friends takes him off to see a doctor or something. Jason wipes at his bloodied chin with the back of his hand and wonders if he can put the buttons back on well enough to fool Bruce. Probably no chance in hell of that.

"You just cost me my ride home," somebody says. It's Blake's sister, Abigail, with her glossy black bob and her dark, dark eyes, leaning against on of the trees. "Now Blake'll take off without remembering me. So what're you gonna do about it?"

"I get picked up at three forty. I'll give you a lift home," offers Jason. He hopes it's the Bentley today. That is one damn cool car, and he bets it's just the kind that somebody like Gail Stevenson would be impressed by.

Abigail raises one sleek eyebrow. "That gives us more than twenty minutes."

The trees are just as good for shielding this as they were for blocking the fight from view. Abigail's straddling his lap on the mulchy ground and she's sucking at the split on his lip like she's a vampire or something. He tries to work the buttons on the blouse of her uniform and she swats his hands out of the way and pulls it open sharply. The little white buttons scatter across the damp leaves, mixing in with those from Blake and Jason's shirts.

"Nothing," she says, voice hot and damp against his mouth. "Nothing below the waist. My parents check."

"Mmm-hmm," Jason nods, moves in closer. Then, "What the fuck?" he pulls back. "They _check_?"

"Every six months. Gyno does a hymen check. It's a clause in my trust fund."

"That's psycho."

Abigail shrugs and nods. "Yeah. So nothing up the skirt, right? And I mean nothing. I'm not taking any chances on a brat like you, Todd."

Jason hmms agreement and trails his mouth down along one strap of her powder-blue bra. They're both gonna have to wear their blazers to cover the mess they've made of their uniforms, and then burn the evidence or something before anybody sees.

Abigail nips and sucks at the point where his throat and collarbone meet, and Jason thinks that she's probably got a vampire fetish or something. She seems really into him, too. Maybe he gives off a vibe that says he looks good in a cape.

When the twenty minutes is gone, Abigail does that weird thing some girls can do where they manage to neaten up really well without a mirror or water or a comb or anything, and Jason does his best to look like he hasn't spent the time since classes ended getting messed up by the Stevenson twins. It's not a particularly convincing performance, but at least he's not actually bleeding anymore.

The car sent is the Bentley, and Jason thanks whatever power's looking out for him. Gail gives a slow nod and says "Nice wheels," and presses her leg against his the whole ride to her house.

"You should beat up my brother more often," she says by way of farewell when they drop her off. She's rolling one of the popped-off buttons between her thumb and forefinger, and Jason wonders how she could tell which ones came from whose shirt.

His own ruined uniform he stashes behind his out-of-season clothes in the back of his closet, intending to ditch them next morning on his way to school. The shirt and slacks are both gone when he goes to collect them, though, and after swearing under his breath for a few minutes Jason goes down to the laundry. No sense in letting a bad situation get worse.

There's a set of his school clothes neatly folded in a washing basket, and Jason can tell that they're the same ones from the near-invisible mending job that's been done on the little rips. All the grass-stains and empty buttonholes have been fixed.

"I repair enough decimated clothing each week to have developed quite a knack for patching," Alfred says, picking up the basket and handing it to Jason. "No sense in bothering Master Bruce about this, unless you feel it's best to do so."

"He probably knows anyway," Jason points out. Alfred's mouth quirks up at the corner.

"Doubtlessly."

\--

After school, Jason does enough of his homework to get away with leaving the rest for later and then works out at one of the punching bags until his wrist starts to twinge a little. He fractured it falling off a fire escape a few years ago, and one of the girls who worked his block helped him bind it and keep it from healing crooked. It mostly only bugs him in winter, but sometimes too many jars can make it all weird for a few days. Jason switches to kicks.

A half-hour or so later, Bruce comes down and does some weight lifting. He doesn't say anything, but Jason's learning how to read Bruce's silences and this one seems relatively friendly.

"Wanna have a round on the mats?" Jason asks, pushing his hair back out of his eyes. He's thinking he might grow it long, if he's allowed.

Jason's always liked being on his own, not having to answer to anybody or have anyone feel obligated to look after him. Even his parents stopped doing that before he was all that old, and that was fine with him. But sparring is about a million times better than working out on his own and Jason guesses that that means he does like having people in his life after all.

Jason shifts stance a little and Bruce's gaze moves with him, and Jason realises that the collar of his sweatshirt doesn't cover the hickey that Abigail left. Any second now Bruce is gonna say something about it, or pointedly not say something about it. Jason uses that second to duck past Bruce's guard and throw him, and they both land with a muffled thud.

"You let your concentration slip," Jason says, triumphant, jumping back to his feet and raising his fists again. Bruce pauses for a moment, grinning, propped up on his elbows. It's rare that Jason manages to get the better of him in sparring and it's obvious that such occasions make Bruce pleased and proud.

"You're good at using opportunities," Bruce tells him. Jason beams. Bruce moves one leg around, too quick to dodge with a jump, and hooks Jason's ankles out from under him.

"Oof." Jason sits up and rubs at his tailbone. "That was low."

"Your own techniques aren't particularly Marquis of Queensberry." Bruce stands, and offers Jason a hand down. Jason thinks it's only fair to use their positions as a chance to plant his leg against Bruce's stomach and throw him over.

"And Todd wins again!" Jason raises both his arms as if to an applauding audience, then stands. "If I try to help you, am I gonna end up on my back?"

Bruce's smile is sharp-edged. "What do your instincts tell you?"

Jason rolls his shoulders back, working a little of the tension out. "Probably." He shrugs, and holds out his hand. Bruce rolls him down onto the mats, as expected, and pins him there with a hand on each arm.

Jason laughs, breath a little ragged from the workout. "Looks like you win after all."

Bruce stays still above him, looking at him like there's some puzzle in his face that needs working out. Jason swallows, trying to get his breathing back to normal. Bruce's fingers tighten on his arms for a split-second and then release him, and Bruce stands up and walks away.

"Finish your homework, Jason," he says over his shoulder.

Jason punches the bag until his wrist feels like it's on fire.

\--

Wednesday afternoon is the practical science class in the lab; Jason likes it best of all his lessons. Next year he'll have the choice of chemistry or biology or even physics, but for now the class is simply "science" and they're dissecting cow eyeballs.

"Gross, man. Gross," he says with a smirk, watching the next bench over as David von Schreiber and Myfanwy Winder poke at the specimen in front of them and cause thick ichor to ooze out slowly from the scalpel cuts. Across the room, everyone's doing pretty much the same thing to the eyes they've been appointed. Cries of 'ohmygod, it _spurted_ on me, I'm gonna puke' and 'here's lookin' at you, kid!' bounce back and forth. It's two thirty-five and nobody's really all that serious about finding the cornea or the iris or anything like that.

Nobody except Lucy Tripp, anyway, and alphabetised seating has put her right beside Jason. She's too busy documenting all her observations of the dissection, peering at the slimy bits of ex-cow on the tray in front of her, for Jason to get a go at making it squelch and pop and stuff.

"Wanna go get a burger or something after class?" Jason asks her, rocking his stool back and forth. She huffs a strand of hair out of her eyes; her right hand is writing and her left hand, still in its plastic glove, is gore-covered.

"No, Jason," she answers, longsuffering. "Can you be quiet, please, so I can finish our work? You're just interfering with your own grade if you distract me."

"Hey, I resent that. I'd be helping if you'd just let me near the damn eye for a minute."

She doesn't answer, and Jason goes back to watching David and Myfanwy. A two forty-two he looks over again. Lucy draws all her margins in red and her headings are black ink, all her notes written in neat blue printing. Jason reaches over and pokes at a large portion of the eye. It wobbles.

Lucy turns, her eyes narrowed in a furious glare. "Fuck _off_ , you little shit."

Jason snorts. "Little? I'm a head and a half taller than you, and almost two years older." Lucy's in the accelerated learning program, and Jason's a year behind the rest of the kids his age. Considering that he had to catch up more than four years' worth of learning in handful of months, he doesn't think he's doing all that shabbily.

Once again, she doesn't bother to respond.

"Hey, your pen's running out of ink."

A muscle in Lucy's jaw moves rapidly, making her skin twitch. "So? It's working fine. See?"

"I was just gonna say you could use mine, but if you want to keep up with the haughty bitch act then I'll just let you scratch away at your paper there." Jason sighs, bouncing one knee impatiently as he watches the tick-tick of the clock above the teacher's bench. Lucy reaches over and picks up Jason's pen, a blue and silver and expensive thing that he hasn't gotten used to the weight of yet.

"Thanks," she says quietly. Jason shrugs.

"Whatever. It's just a pen."

After class, Lucy stays behind to help wash and put away all the instruments and to dispose of the specimen remains. Jason would like to crack a joke about the leftovers turning up in tomorrow's cafeteria mystery meat but figures he's probably used up Lucy's tolerance of him for the day.

He lingers at the front gate anyway, scuffing his shoes against the drive and then feeling guilty 'cause Alfred will have to polish them again. Jason doesn't really get why anybody would want shoes to be shiny.

"Hey, Lucy, wait up," he calls when she walks past. Lucy walks everywhere as if there is a dog nipping at her heels.

"What?" she snaps, clutching her books tighter against her chest. Her sweaters are always too big, like her skirts, but right now she looks as if she'd like to shrink down small enough to vanish beneath the worn wool completely.

"I was just thinking," Jason says, keeping pace beside her as she walks towards the train station. Her hair is wrenched back into two ruddy-coloured braids today, making the skin of her forehead look shiny and tight and pinched.

"Did it hurt?"

"Haha. Don't you think it's weird that we have mystery meat in the cafeteria sometimes? Like, a snooty place like our school, shouldn't it be caviar and champagne? It's just funny."

Lucy glares at him and walks even faster. "Funny for you, maybe."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Her answer is almost too quiet to hear. "Fuck you."

She breaks into a run, and this time Jason doesn't bother to catch up.

\--

Batman comes home with two crossbow bolts stuck in his side, and Jason's got the job of boiling the water and then putting away the antiseptic and the bandages later on, plus noting what medical supplies are getting low. He's tempted to write down that they need Sesame Street plasters, just to see if Alfred'll buy them. Alfred sometimes does stuff like that and gives Jason sly winks, and it's funny. There's no better comedy-routine straight man than the Dark Knight.

Jason's mom used to put the kettle on whenever his dad came home banged up, too, but that was to make coffee. She'd read in a book once that in times of trouble it was good to make tea, but since neither her nor her husband liked tea all that much she substituted coffee. Jason doesn't really know how to make tea, or coffee, but figures that it's better to try and fail than not give it a shot at all.

Bruce is propped up on pillows, reading a computer print-out and looking annoyed. His stomach's wrapped in bandages, and Jason reminds himself to add dressings to the supplies list. They go through them pretty fast.

"Made you tea," Jason says, bringing a cup and saucer over to the night-table.

Bruce looks surprised. "Thankyou very much, Jason." He takes a sip and smiles. "It's good."

Since Jason's got no idea what good tea's supposed to taste like, he doesn't know whether Bruce is lying or not.

"Get some more sleep," Bruce orders. Jason doesn't bother, since it'll be time to get up in a couple of hours anyway. He goes back down to the kitchen, where Alfred's doing those little tidy-up things that people do when there's not actually anything that needs doing.

"Can you," Jason says, a little hesitant. "Can you show me how to make tea?"

Alfred doesn't bat an eyelash. "Of course. I was about to make a pot myself."

\--

There's a kid named Sean who's in the year above Jason, who hangs out in the art rooms most of the time and probably thinks that accidentally catching a whiff of paint in the storerooms is living on the wild side. He's skinny and big-eyed and not all that tall and likes pottery.

Sometimes Jason goes and hangs out with him. They don't really have a lot in common but it's nice to have the company, and most other guys at the school are dicks with nothing to say anyway. Sometimes Sean gets this look in his eye, and smiles at Jason, and Jason knows that if he hopped down off the table where he's sitting and went over and grabbed Sean and kissed him then Sean would kiss back, and probably take him into the darkroom.

But Sean's skinny, and big-eyed, and not all that tall, and kinda reminds Jason of Lucy Tripp from science class and of some of the kids Jason knew when he was younger.

With people like Sean, Jason feels dangerous. He doesn't like feeling dangerous. He wants to feel like he's not a threat. Safe. He doesn't want to touch anyone who might break.

Instead of going to the art rooms and chatting to Sean, Jason goes and picks a fight with Blake Stevenson again. He ends up with a bloody nose and a cut along one cheekbone and Blake's blood all over his knuckles. They both get sent to the principal's office.

"Your sister the only one who gets her cherry checked?" Jason asks, quiet enough so that the receptionist won't hear. Blake's got a black eye blooming. "Or do you have to keep yourself nice for a future husband, too?"

"Faggot," Blake answers snidely, too stupid to keep his voice low. Mrs Palmerston gives him a dirty look over her typewriter, and Jason adds another victory to his mental scoreboard.

"Takes one to know one, asshole." Jason's words are breezy and he leans back on the uncomfortable wooden bench.

\--

Eventually, finally, it's Friday night. The sky's as clear as it ever gets in Gotham, the air's sharp enough to make Jason shiver. It's like the whole world is holding its breath.

They're doing a cursory sweep through one of the nicer parts of town when Jason spots trouble. It's sort of annoying, because he's hyper-aware of Batman up on the rooftop behind him, watching to see how he goes. It's like trying to read a letter with someone hovering at his shoulder. Another twenty minutes and they'd've split up, and then Jason wouldn't have had to worry about what he was doing wrong, or whether he was too obviously having fun.

It's a mugging, out in plain view on a well-lit but empty street. Good. Jason likes the cocky ones. They go down harder.

The victim's a young woman, mid twenties maybe, with a pretty face and slim arms and a soft-looking pink sweater and a softer-looking blonde ponytail. She's got a child with her, too, a toddler with a few dark curls peeking out from under a green knitted cap. The little kid's clutching at the woman and whimpering.

The mugger is a standard-issue thug, carrying a dull-bladed knife and grinning in a way that belies his "I'm not gonna hurt you, lady, I just want your purse" lines. Jason lands almost soundlessly a few feet behind him.

The woman's eyes open a little bit wider, a tiny movement of surprise and gratitude, and the mugger whirls just as Jason throws the first punch. There's that great sound of teeth coming loose, and then Jason has to jump back to avoid a clumsy sweep of the knife. He kicks the mugger in the jaw to distract him and then grabs the wrist of the hand that's holding the knife and bends it until he hears a crack.

"You broke my fucking arm! Shit!"

"Would you watch your language? There's a kid present," Jason says, and punches the guy a couple of times. The mugger tries to claw at Jason's face with his uninjured hand, cursing all the while. Jason dodges again and brings a knee up to the guy's groin and then just punches and punches and punches until the guy stops twitching. He's still breathing, though. Jason would hate to waste an ambulance on someone like this.

"You okay?" Jason asks the woman. She nods mutely. "You sure?"

"Yes," she manages. "Thankyou."

"Get a cab the rest of the way home."

The woman nods again. The kid is looking at Jason with big blue eyes made bigger with unclouded adoration. Jason checks again to make sure that the mugger's out cold, then goes back to where Batman's still watching.

Now he's gonna get a lecture about unnecessary force and about the difference between satisfaction and enjoyment and probably one about bad language too, even though it wasn't him who was swearing.

"You just changed that child's whole future," Batman says. Jason waits for the 'but'. "Good work, Robin."

Surprised, Jason grins. "No big deal. It's what we do."

"Yes," Batman agrees.

\--

The days drag and Jason thinks that Bruce is getting seriously ripped off by the fees Jason's school is charging. The clocks have gotta be running on cheap batteries, there's no way a trig class should last that long.

There's no way a week should last this long. By Thursday he's losing his mind, and spends most of the day sitting on the steps near city hall with a girl who swears that her name really is Blueberry. She's pretty cool, and offers to pierce Jason's ear with a pin and a match.

Bruce is waiting for him when he gets home. He doesn't look angry or disappointed, so Jason doesn't automatically make a bolt back out the door.

"I'm assuming that there's a good reason why Alfred had to tell your year-level coordinator that yes, you've come down with that bad cough some of the other students have."

Jason winces. Stupid nosy school. "Um. I'm cultivating a cover for my secret identity?"

"Oh yes?" Bruce looks like he's trying not to smile.

"Yeah." Jason nods enthusiastically, praying that Bruce will let him get away with the bluff.

"I'd rather your cover involved diligent study and exemplary manners." And that _was_ a smile, no question about it.

Jason shrugs. "You're always saying that it's best for a person to play to their strengths."

They're both grinning now. "Dick phoned," Bruce says.

"Oh," Jason replies, and keeps his face blank. Of course Dick called. Bruce would never be this cheerful just on account of Jason's smartass mouth.

"I -" Bruce pauses. "We didn't speak. Alfred took the call. It was for you, in fact. Dick's going away for the weekend, and invited you along."

Jason's not sure what to say to that. "Oh?" It's the word of a million uses.

"He's coming by on Saturday morning. If you want Friday night to rest beforehand, that's all right too."

"Er." It's good that going to a fancy school has given Jason such a wide vocabulary. He wants to say _but I want to stay here!_ , even though he knows it would be whining, but Bruce looks so happy and pleased and even Jason's not enough of a bastard to harsh a buzz like that.

\--

He expects that it'll be uncomfortable. Maybe like when his dad got out of jail the first time and took Jason to the zoo, and they stood there looking at the animals and not really saying anything. They had ice-creams, but the cones went soft and the topping kinda melted everywhere and left their hands all sticky, and Jason's dad kept saying all these jokey things that just sounded forced and sad. It's gonna be just like that, only Dick's probably going to skip the part where they watch a gorilla eat leaves and scratch itself for twenty minutes.

Dick doesn't try to have a heart-to-heart with him on the way, though, which is a good start. Jason's allowed to pick the radio station.

"Ever been skiing before?"

"Nope." Jason shakes his head. "Is it one of those things that everyone says is a piece of cake and turns out to be really shitty and difficult? Because this girl I knew when I was a kid always told me that ice skating was easy, and then she took me along once and I spent the whole afternoon on my ass."

"You'll have fun," Dick promises. Which isn't really an answer, but close enough.

By nightfall, Jason's decided that snowboarding is his favourite rich-people pastime. He aches all over, and he's pretty sure that little fingers only go that particular shade of purple when they're broken, and he's almost as happy as if he was having an ordinary weekend.

Now he and Dick are sitting in the lodge or whatever it's called, drinking hot chocolate. Jason made a half-hearted attempt at persuading Dick to make them Irish hot chocolates, but figures that Dick probably wasn't allowed to even think about alcohol at his age and that it'd just earn Jason another of those eyebrow-furrows that seem to be Dick's version of Bruce's face-scrubbing move. Jason wonders if he could give them proper nervous tics, with enough time and effort.

There's a guy and a girl over by the bar, about college age. He's one of those tall, built types with big laughs and ultra-white smiles. His hair's dark brown. The girl's got shiny blonde curls, the kind that bounce a little when she moves. They keep glancing over at Jason. Jason keeps glancing back. This is turning into a really good holiday.

Dick follows Jason's line of sight over to the bar, does that eyebrow thing again, and clears his throat.

"Jason, has Bruce talked to you about sex?"

Jason splutters into his hot chocolate and coughs a couple of times. So much for suave.

"Dick." Jason tries not to crack up. How can he explain that, from Bruce, a talk about racism towards aliens would seem less surprising than a sex-ed lecture, and not just because they've actually had the alien-respect discussion. "Seriously, you of all people should know the answer to that."

"I just wanted to check if anybody's explained that being safe isn't just guarding against pregnancy and diseases, it's about choosing the right person. Knowing when you're ready."

Oh, geez. People actually say stuff like that outside of crappy movies? Jason flops back against the couch. He's willing to bet that Dick's not even sure exactly what the words are supposed to mean. Just that he's supposed to say them. "I'm having a really good time. This weekend, I mean. I know how to look after myself, all right? I'm not dumb."

"I didn't say you were dumb." Dick sounds offended, then sighs. "Okay, no more lectures."

"Am I allowed to go over now?"

"I'm not going to stop you," Dick says, which Jason knows is a 'you absolutely shouldn't'. Jason puts his drink down and gets up.

The guy's name is Andrew and the girl is Lorelei and they're from Metropolis and they're engaged. They let Jason drink champagne, when they get back to their room, and ask if he and his older brother come to the slopes often.

When Jason goes back to his own room for breakfast he finds that Dick's ordered the toast extra-brown, which is how Jason likes it. Dick's obviously spent at least some of the night on training himself to be cool about stuff, and doesn't even do the eyebrow-furrow.

In the afternoon, a young woman approaches them as they wait for the chairlift. She's selling polaroid photographs, holiday mementoes. Dick gives her a couple of dollars and the flash makes Jason's vision swim with colours for a few seconds.

"We look so pale. Like ghosts," he says when the image has developed. Their noses are sunburn-red and their cheeks ruddied from the cold, but in the photo their skin is almost as white as the snow.

"Polaroids are crappy cameras," Dick agrees, and tucks the picture into the pocket of his jacket.

Later, when Jason's hand has started to feel uncomfortable in its glove - he bound the purpled finger with tape, and it's looking a little healthier - they sit and watch the other skiers.

"Did you ever think much about your parents?" Jason asks. His breath looks all gusty in the air. "When you were a kid?"

"I still do." Dick looks like he wants to pat Jason's shoulder or something. "You're allowed to talk about yours, you know."

Jason shrugs. "Dunno what to say." The snow's dirty where people have been walking over it all day, but the parts that haven't been stepped on are almost bright enough to blind. "I miss my mom, sometimes. And my dad. But I guess I'm still pretty angry at them for a bunch of stuff, so it's probably better that they're gone. I don't know whether I'd hug 'em or throw a punch."

Now Dick does pat Jason's shoulder. "I've been told it gets easier. I think it's more that you just get used to it."

"Lorelei - that girl I was talking to last night - she thought you were my older brother."

"Yeah?" The word sounds guarded, like Dick's trying not to put any tone into it.

"Yeah. She wanted to know what you were like. I said you were okay, for a square."

Dick laughs loudly, throwing his head back. "A _square_? I think use of that word loses you every shred of street-credibility you ever had, Jason."

Jason sniggers. "Yeah, you're probably right."

\--

Jason naps for most of the drive back, and lets Dick choose the radio station. The world looks really still outside the car windows, and Jason feels like he could stay just where he is for the rest of his life.

"We should do this again sometime," he says, then coughs. "I mean, if you wanna."

Dick smiles a little, watching the road. "Yeah." He nods. "We'll do that."

"Cool." Jason grins, and closes his eyes again.

\--

He zones out completely for most of the week, coasting along without really thinking about much of anything. There's an English paper that ends up with a big red D on the top of it, but Jason's planning to milk that 'I'm creating an intricate public identity' excuse for every drop it's worth. He doesn't mind being underestimated by most people. It makes life easier.

Friday feels like waking up, same as always. A kick here, a punch there, some guy's broken nose leaving a big smear on his leg on the way to the pavement.

"Robin."

Two more down and that's the lot taken care of. Jason laces his fingers together and bends them back, cracking the knuckles.

"Robin. You're done for tonight."

"What?" Jason turns, puzzlement and fury trying to up one another in his tone. "It's early, Batman."

"And you're done." Batman's voice isn't all that stern, by Batman standards, but it's still not a voice most people would sass back to.

"Screw that." Jason fires off a grapple and swings up and off, resisting the urge to whoop a war-cry as he does so.

The weather's patchy, lots of drizzly rain, so he doubles back to where they left the bike and the car and takes the bike out to the warehouse district, where there are lots of awnings and overhangs.

There's always some deal going down in that area, which makes Jason even more sure than usual that crooks are incredibly stupid. Even lab rats eventually learn cause and effect, with enough electric shocks. That same lesson doesn't seem to be getting through to the guys who continue to meet in places where half a dozen other, similar meetings have ended with Robin beating the shit out of all involved.

Jason smirks. Nobody would credit him with having paid much attention when they were studying rats.

When Jason takes out the first couple of guys, one of the other bright sparks decides to start grabbing handfuls of the gravel underfoot and throwing them at him. It stings a little, there's bits of glass and stuff mixed in, but Jason ignores it. The mask'll keep his eyes safe, and he's gotten scraped up worse before. He makes sure not to damage any of the evidence as he drops low and jabs at a couple of ankles with sharp kicks.

There's a crack of gunfire and Jason darts back into the shadows, getting his bearings before moving in to disarm. Another fistful of glass and gravel hits him on the thigh and he winces at the sting of it. Shots are still ringing out and it's obvious that the guy's shooting wild, and that's dangerous, so Jason runs out and grabs the pistol and cracks its owner over the head hard with the butt before the shooter has a chance to blink.

Still one more guy to account for. Jason spins, looking for him in the high shadows of the buildings all around before noticing the dark shape of a prone body sprawled in a puddle of rainwater which, when Jason gets closer, turns out to be blood. Two of the randomly-aimed shots have gone through the guy's neck, and he's already dead.

Jason's thigh hurts like hell and he's feeling kinda woozy. He figures that, even if he doesn't listen to Batman on the subject, he should trust his own body to tell him when it's time to call it a night. He makes a call to the police from a payphone and then, stumbling a little, heads back to where he left the bike.

\--

He's in civvies by the time Bruce gets home, drinking tea with extra sugar and pretending to read a newspaper.

"Jason."

"I took out a gang. I've been listening on the police scanner, heard they found more than half a million dollars' worth of heroin at the scene. That'd be going out on the street this week, if I'd gone home when you said." Jason doesn't look up from the page he's not reading.

"Alfred tells me that you were hurt."

"I'm fine." Jason grits his teeth. "It was just a graze. Nothing deep. Five stitches."

"A graze from a _bullet_ , Jason. You were _shot_."

"Spare me the drama. I didn't even realise it wasn't just gravel until Alfred looked at it. It just stung a little."

Jason glares down at the newspaper. Bruce doesn't say anything, and after half a minute Jason caves and looks up. The expression on Bruce's face difficult to read, which isn't unusual.

"I want you staying in at night until it's fully healed."

"No way," Jason says, shaking his head. "I favour the other leg anyway. It won't slow me down any, I won't be a burden."

"That's not why."

Jason shrugs, and looks down at the newspaper again. "Whatever." He wonders if he should start a scrapbook of articles that mention him. Something to show the grandkids one day: _and this is the time when your poppa helped vanquish an evil mime_. He laughs quietly to himself at the thought.

Bruce stands there, watching him. Jason acts like he can't feel it.

\--

A journalist comes by the manor to grab a couple of quotes and a photo or two of Bruce sitting around for a puff-piece in some magazine. She's pretty, in that way that's got nothing to do with the person underneath and everything to do with the polish on the top, and her laugh is high and irritating and her nails are a glossy dark pink.

Jason trails them through the house, keeping quiet as he can. The journalist has no idea that he's there, and Jason smirks and considers moving stuff around when she's not looking. Creating a little bit of urban folklore; the Ghost of Wayne Manor. Bruce would probably let him get away with it, too.

Bruce does all those stupid playboy flirt things and she eats it up. Touching the small of her back to guide her from room to room, brushing lint that isn't there off her shoulder. Eventually, finally, she leaves, and Bruce goes to his study to read. Jason follows, leaning against the doorframe and watching Bruce for a minute or so before saying anything.

"You don't feel safe. With people like her."

"It's not a question of safety." Bruce looks up from the book he's studying. "It's a necessary evil. And I've never been in real danger of discovery in such circumstances."

"No, I mean -" Shrugging, Jason fumbles for the right words. "I don't know what to call it. You protect them, but you're not part of them. One of them. And when you touch them, you're worried that you're gonna break them. For them, you're not safe, and you know it."

"Jason -"

"Just thought you might be interested to know that I get it." Jason shrugs again, and turns to go.

"Jason, wait."

He looks back towards Bruce again, who's standing now. "Yeah?"

"I'm... glad you understand." Jason's treated to a small, not-entirely-Bruce smile. He can't help but smile back.

\--

Jason's teeth are really crappy . Good food and regular brushing has helped some, since he moved, but they're still not anything like the even white smiles of most of the other students at his school. His dentist spends most of Wednesday afternoon trying to convince Jason to submit to a set of braces and Jason tells him in no uncertain, but somewhat colourful, terms that this is not going to happen under any circumstances.

Once the appointment's over, Jason decides to walk around the city for a while. He thinks best when his feet are moving.

"Hey, Jason! Jason Todd!"

Jason turns, surprised at the sound of his name. Lucy Tripp's running to catch up with him, her hair loose down past her shoulders. She looks cheerful.

Jason looks at her face closely. "Are you an alien pod-person?"

"What?" Lucy looks puzzled, and still cheerful.

"Evil robot? Possessed? 'Cause there's no way that you're Lucy. You weren't in class today, even though you don't seem to be maimed or dead, which is weird enough without you cracking a smile like that."

She snorts. "I guess I deserve that. What're you up to?"

"Just came from the dentist's. You?"

Lucy wrinkles her nose. "Catalogue route. Letterbox dropping, you know? I just finished."

"Are you high, is that it? Because there's no way you'd be treating me like a human being without a whole lot of drugs being involved."

"Shut up, Jason," Lucy says, pushing her hair behind one ear. "I'm allowed to be in a good mood, aren't I?"

"Past experience is making me answer 'no' to that one."

Lucy shrugs. "I got some good news in the mail."

"Must have been damn good news, if you're talking to me."

"Yeah, well, it was."

Jason looks expectant. Lucy looks confused. "What?" she asks.

"What's your good news, dummy? Are you gonna tell me, or just stand there?"

For a moment, her good humour falters and the wariness creeps back into her eyes. "Um."

"Whatever." Jason sighs. "I'm hungry. You want to come to the ice cream parlour with me? My treat, as a celebration of whatever secret thing has turned you into a human being."

"Minute ago you said I was an alien."

"No, I asked if you were an alien. There's a difference."

They go to the ice-cream place and Lucy gets a banana milkshake and Jason gets a scoop of vanilla, a scoop of chocolate, and a scoop of strawberry in a bowl.

"Didn't you just say you were on your way back from the dentist's?"

"Yeah."

Lucy shakes her head. "Boys," she says, as if that explains everything. "Not to mention the fact that they have about five hundred flavours here - I mean, I didn't even know you could have garlic ice cream, ugh - and you've chosen the most absolutely boring combination possible."

"Hey, don't knock the classics, Tripp. Now what's the news that's got you all happy?"

"I'm going to boarding school."

Jason blinks. "You know, most people wouldn't actually think that's all that great."

"It is for me. I'll be a properly employed tutor for the younger grades, so I'm not gonna be a charity kid like I am now. No more wearing someone else's crappy cast-off uniforms, no more having to take diet pills so I'm awake enough when I get home from work to do my homework. I'm getting out of here, out of the city, out of my life."

Now Jason smiles. "Congratulations, then. That's cool."

"It's just been -" Lucy makes a frustrated gesture, her hands hooked into claws beside her head. "- I hate our school, you know? Once, before you started there, I had to get all my hair cut off. I live with a bunch of other kids in a home and one of the little ones picked up lice, so we all got the chop. And our fine learning institution suspended me, because girls have a regulation minimum hair length in the uniform requirements. Is that fucked up or what?"

"Fucked up," Jason agrees. "Why'd you keep going, if you hated it?"

Lucy takes another long drink through her plastic straw. "We're not all born to the manor, Jason. Some of us are trying to claw our own way to a good future. I know what my strengths are, and one of them's my brain, and I play to that. Scholarships are a good way to climb the ladder."

"You and Bruce should talk. You'd get along."

"How come you call him Bruce?"

Jason swallows a mouthful of ice cream too quickly and gives himself a mild brain-freeze. "Huh?"

"Why do you call your dad by his first name?" Lucy looks puzzled. "Come to think of it, how come you've got a different last name? Your dad's Bruce Wayne, right?"

"In the habit of reading the society pages, are we?"

"Are you kidding? At our school, who your father is is more important than your marks."

"I'm adopted."

"Oh," Lucy blinks in surprise. "I didn't know. I guess I should read the society pages, huh?"

"Bruce isn't my dad." Jason thinks for a moment. "He's... we look out for each other, that's all. I gotta keep my name, anyway. I'm the last of the Todds. We're a pretty famous family. You might've heard of my great-grandad, the barber. Sweeney."

Lucy blinks, then chuckles. "You're funny. I didn't know you were funny."

"Or that I knew how to read?"

Her smile becomes a smirk. "Something like that."

"What about your parents?"

"What about them? My mother was a teenager and she died. Didn't even pick out a given name for me; the nuns at the orphanage did. Lucia Catherine Anne Tripp." Lucy makes a mock-revolted face. "I've always been Lucy, though. You got any nicknames?"

"Not really. Jay, sometimes."

"Like the bird."

Now it's Jason's turn to smirk a little. "Yeah, like the bird."

They finish their snack and Lucy looks at her watch and says "Oh, shit, I've gotta run. Thanks for the milkshake, Jason. I'm glad I got to know you, at least a little, before going. You... I've always thought you seemed pretty cool."

"Shut up, you did not. You thought I had the plague."

"I'm not coming back to classes this week. I catch the train out to the new place on the weekend."

"I might actually get a chance to do my own science homework."

Without warning, Lucy hugs him tight for a second and then steps away again, grinning shyly before running off.

Jason guesses that she's probably the unofficial den-mother at the children's home, and will end up in the same role as soon as she gets to her new school. She's got a good hug on her.

"Have a good one, Tripp!" he shouts.

"See you round, Todd!" she calls back.

\--

Another rainy weekend. Jason wonders if he'd be allowed to design a cape with a waterproof hood. Probably not; the masks already block their peripheral vision quite a bit. Better to get a little wet than to miss the swing coming at you from the side.

There's not much going on, so Jason goes at sits on a roof opposite an apartment building and watches the people who're still up so late. People talking, having late dinners, chatting on the phone, watching tv, making out, working on needlepoint. It's like watching a dollhouse that moves, little dolls with little lives, all happy and cheerful and plastic and painted.

He sneezes a couple of times and takes that as a cue to go home. He swings down the side of the building where he's been sitting and ends up landing underneath where the overhead gutter empties out, getting a torrent of dirty water dumped straight on top of his head.

"Dammit, this is not my night," Jason mutters, pulling his cape in closer around his shoulders. By the time he gets back to the manor he's slightly drier, a fine coating of grime covering his head and neck and the top third of the uniform. It looks pretty weird in the bathroom mirror, his whole face dirty except for the shape of where the mask covered him.

Once he's clean and dry and feeling a little better, Jason heads down to the cave and spends a while reading stuff on the computer. He yawns, and thinks that maybe he should get an early night for once. First time for everything, after all.

The squeal of the Batmobile's tires on the floor of the cave is enough in itself to make him jump in surprise. He's left more than his share of skid marks with the bike, but he's never seen the car driven so erratically.

He hurries over, standing by the driver's-side door as Batman opens it. "Jason," Batman says, and then doesn't say anything else because, oh _shit_ , Batman's fainted and the car stinks of blood and there's a huge tear one of the legs of the suit and Jason can see a long white sliver of bone through the red.

\--

He makes tea. He paces. He sits and jiggles his knee and taps his fingers against his jeans, over where the still-healing cut on his own leg is itching. He paces more and makes more tea.

"Master Bruce is going to be fine," Alfred assures him for the thousandth time. "It's just sleep. No longer a faint, and not a coma. The tears to muscle weren't serious, and it'll heal cleanly. The blood loss was significant, but not enough to cause lasting harm. Sleep is nature's great curative."

He's used the exact same words twice already. Jason, once again, decides to ignore the hint and keep pacing.

"I could see the bone, Alfred."

"As could I, and this is not the first occasion. I have no doubt that it will not be the last."

Eventually Jason covers his mouth with his hand, blinks sleepily, and says goodnight. It's probably not amongst his most convincing performances but he's counting on the fact that Alfred must be exhausted too.

Sure enough, when he cracks open the door to his room a half-hour later it's to find that the house sleeps. It's still dark out, because of the rain, but Jason knows that it's morning by now. The world feels different when it's really night.

Bruce in asleep with his back and shoulders against a bank of pillows, his injured leg raised a little on a couple of cushions. He's wearing dark boxer shorts and doesn't look at all like a person at rest - his face is shadowed, exhausted, pensive. Bruce sleeps like it hurts him to do so.

Jason kneels beside the bed, watching the rise and fall of Bruce's chest with each breath. There are so many scars; Jason wonders if Bruce's body would be recognisable without them. They're like a map, or a puzzle, piece of art that's still in progress.

There's a long one on Bruce's forearm, a thin white shape edged with the tiny dot-bumps where stitches once went in and out. Jason traces the line of it with his thumb, then with his forefinger. There's another scar just above the first, this one less even and more faded. Another on the outer bend of the elbow, a wide knot of uneven tissue - torn stitches from bending the wound too much.

Three parallel lines above the elbow, a neat echo of a bullet's path, a ragged burn mark. Jason's made his way up over the curve of Bruce's shoulder and onto his collarbone, pausing to learn every scar on the way, when a hand comes down on top of his own and stops him.

Bruce's hands are surprising things. They look how they have to, manicured and cared-for, but the feel of them is nothing like the appearance would suggest. Bruce's hands feel very purposeful, all the time.

"Jason."

"You've got a lot of scars," Jason says quietly. "Times you've survived. You don't break." He could pull his hand out from underneath Bruce's if he really wanted to - the hold is not intended to physically restrain him - but instead Jason moves up to sit on the edge of the bed and restart the process with his other hand. Up the arm, over the shoulder. This time he moves down instead of across, finding the scars and scratches over the chest and along the breastbone.

"That doesn't make this safe." Bruce's voice is quiet and warning. Jason can feel Bruce's pulse with his pinned hand, even and slow and steady.

"No," Jason agrees, stroking his thumb across a particularly old, deep-looking scar. "But anything that would break you... it'd break me, too. And we'd be broken together. Bruce, please, I -"

Bruce's other hand stills Jason's just as he's about to brush it over the nipple, over the scratch which misses it by a fraction of an inch. "Jason," he says again, like the word is all he has left to use.

"I want to learn all your scars," Jason tells him. And, because he's got no hands free, Jason licks at the one his hand was about to touch, letting his tongue move over the scar and over Bruce's fingers atop his own.

Bruce makes a choked-off noise, his hands pressing onto Jason's more firmly. The rhythm of his heartbeat is shifting.

"I want -" says Jason, and plants one of his knees on the edge of the mattress and the other between Bruce's legs and kisses him, hard as he can.

It's a second, one thump of Bruce's heart under Jason's palm, before Bruce is kissing back. Jason thinks that this alone might be enough to undo him, the way Bruce's movements seem thoughtful even when they verge on frantic, the way he seems to be learning the taste of Jason's lower lip as thoroughly as Jason was learning the topography of Bruce's scars.

Bruce's hands aren't holding Jason's down anymore. One's in Jason's hair, pulling him deeper into the kiss. The other slides up and down Jason's side, rucking the hem of his t-shirt up further with each movement. Jason suddenly hates his t-shirt, his jeans, every item of clothing he has ever worn in his entire life. He makes a frustrated, impatient noise against Bruce's mouth and moves away for long enough to pull the t-shirt over his head, squirming as Bruce presses his uninjured leg up between Jason's. Jason's hands are still skating over Bruce's chest, memorising all the marks he can find.

Bruce's hand traces up and down Jason's side and it takes Jason a while before he realises that Bruce is touching the two little scars Jason has there, where he'd gotten scratched by a broken window one time. The cuts were never stitched, and the scars are raised and jagged. Jason shivers, forcing himself not to make too much noise.

It's probably uncomfortable for Bruce, having Jason's jeans against his skin with only the cotton of his boxers in between. Too coarse for comfortable friction. Jason's feeling a bit like that himself, because there aren't any shorts between him and the inside of the denim, but every time he thinks about caring the thought gets lost by another wave of feeling.

They're not really kissing anymore, just looking at each other, and Jason can barely get enough air in to keep himself from feeling light-headed, much less say anything, so they're almost silent as they rock and press and shift together. Bruce pops the button at Jason's waistband and slips his hand inside and Jason couldn't hold back the little jerk his hips make then even if he had Bruce-level control.

"Oh, fuck," he manages to gasp.

"Watch your language," Bruce scolds, and Jason starts laughing and then stops, going tense as the rush builds and builds and then spills over and he cannot imagine being able to do anything in the world except come in Bruce's hand.

He keeps rocking against Bruce, slower now, and thinks about all the things he wants to do when they're not so desperate, so impatient. When the ache's been dulled, just a little.

"Jason," says Bruce, and Jason had no idea that his name could mean so many things.

\--

Second period on Monday is tech drawing. Jason's already studied orthographic projection intensively as part of his training, so mostly he just clock-watches through the classes, sharpening his pencils until they're needle-thin at the tips. He decides that nobody in the world should be made to study amphichiral objects on Monday morning, except as a form of torture-by-boredom.

The class in dragging on forever, as always, but that doesn't bother him so much anymore. Everything'll pass, given enough time.

Jason runs his palm over the stiches in his thigh, and follows the tick of the seconds.


End file.
